


Les Immorteles

by alizarin_nyc



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:14:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/pseuds/alizarin_nyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master tastes like dust and death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Immorteles

**Title:** Les Immorteles  
**Author:** Alizarin_NYC  
**Fandom:** Doctor Who  
**Pairing:** Doctor/Master (Ten/SimmMaster)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Written for:** [](http://sparky77.livejournal.com/profile)[**sparky77**](http://sparky77.livejournal.com/) my enabler du jour and a great person.

 **Summary:** The Master tastes like dust and death.

 **WARNINGS:** Spoileriffic for The End of Time (Part 1)

He’s running again, just like the Master wants him to, only this time he’s chasing, not being chased. His hearts are pounding, his shoes are kicking up little puffs of dust and pebbles skitter out of his way as he barrels along in this desolate place. He doesn’t quite believe his eyes. The Master. Alive.

Wilf interrupts him in time to stop him from chasing the Master to the end of the world, and he’s grateful for that as he’s afraid, so very afraid.

He returns at nightfall to the shipyard and finds the Master in a dark dirty hole. The Master hits him with a blue, electric light that sets his body to vibrating and finally, to falling, and then he’s finally – finally - in the Master’s arms again, all too briefly. The Master’s laughing, head thrown back, unhinged and more beautiful than the Doctor has ever seen him. He grabs the Master by the thin material of his dirty hoodie and the only way to stop the maniacal laughter is to press his mouth hard against his and swallow the sound. The Master tastes like dust and death.

“Look at us now,” the Master says.

The Master is hungry and he bites. The Doctor can feel the sharpness of his teeth on his lower lip and he pulls back slightly to enforce the ground rules. He’s not to be the main course in the Master’s buffet of destruction, not yet. Still, he’s nearly powerless when it comes to the Master, and he’s bound to offer himself up in any number of ways before this is all over. And this time, it _will_ be over.

The Master licks a long stripe up the Doctor’s neck, right over his Adam’s apple, and the Doctor swallows. His lungs still burn from the Master’s strange electric rebuttal, and the Master laughs again, this time his face turns into a skull and back again. The Doctor can save him. He _can_. He grips the Master’s face and presses kiss after kiss to the dry lips that are still laughing. He rolls his fingers in the dirty sweatshirt and pulls it up and off, he doesn’t care that the Master smells strange, like the aftermath of a lightning storm and something worse, like burnt flesh. He doesn’t care that there are swathes of dirt and grit covering the Master’s body, that there is strangers’ blood under his fingernails, it’s still humanity, the Doctor’s favorite, and the taste of it on the Master is his punishment.

The Master’s head falls back against the hard ground with a thump and he’s not laughing now. His cock is just as the Doctor remembers it, elegant, but too big not to be brutal, swollen for him not out of lust but because what’s between them is vicious and complicated and the Master can only enjoy that kind of challenge. The Doctor leans over and scrapes the head of the Master’s cock with his teeth, twisting the dark jeans he’s forced open so that the Master can’t move his legs. The Master writhes beautifully beneath him, asking for more pain, so the Doctor goes gentle, stroking his hips and relaxing his jaw as he sucks him in, so that the sensation will unsettle the Master in all the right ways. The Doctor’s played this game so long and it never gets old. He wishes again and again for a lifetime to do this to the Master, for time itself to stop, for the two of them to be time-locked away together because eternity isn’t enough, and the five minutes he’ll be given now is the Master’s best and most cruel torture to date.

The Doctor sits up, leaving a trail of saliva behind and the Master’s head comes up. “Oi, don’t stop,” he says smugly. “Was just getting _good_.”

“It’s going to get better,” the Doctor promises, and he means it. He needs to say goodbye, to the Master, to himself, to the earth beneath them. He flips the Master over and sucks on two of his own fingers before pushing them into the Master. The Master moans and laughs and it sounds almost human.

“Nice, Doctor, now you get it. For all the times I rode you bareback into a sunset made more brilliant by the burning flames of earth, just before I slit Jack’s throat and then made the Jones’ serve me my dinner – ah good times, eh? You’ve always given me just what I want, Doctor.” The Master waxes eloquent even as he grinds back on the Doctor’s fingers.

“It will pain you to know that this time, I want it just as much,” the Doctor says just before he pulls back to undo his trousers. Grief is an all-powerful aphrodisiac, and that’s what the Doctor feels. Grief. The more heightened his pleasure – and it _is_ heightened, he feels how hard he is, how close to the edge as he handles himself and steadies the Master’s hips – the more he wants to weep.

But he doesn’t weep, he whispers, feels the dust in his throat as he tells the Master how beautiful he is, how much he wants him, forever, how they are the two of them, alone, and only.

The Doctor holds the back of the Master’s head down as he pushes inside. He wants to take the Master, to rip him apart if necessary, anything to keep him close, even if he’s in pieces, suffering and half mad. That’s why he’s the Doctor -- he needs to be needed. The Master’s not an _other_ no, he’s a condition, an irrevocable condition. The Doctor pushes all the way in and the Master giggles, his words an incoherent kind of poetry. The Doctor can’t last long, and the sudden banging in his head isn’t helping. He realizes what it is. It’s a four-beat, familiar, and the Master is asking him, “can you hear it? Can you hear it? Can. You. Hear- _It_.”

“Yes,” he gasps, and then the tears are really coming, the eternal weeping begins, because it’s in the Master, it’s not mere madness but a relentless, painful drumming created in him for this very reason. The Doctor’s hips move of their own accord, according to the Master’s drums, drumming into the Master in a series of four quick thrusts, and then the Master is twisting in his grasp, coming over his hand which has circled around and is working in time too, with a strangely alien insistence, _dum dum da-dum_. His own body betrays him as well and even his orgasm feels drum-like, detached, a pleasurable strain on all his senses.

The Master is up and dancing before the Doctor can catch his breath. He shrugs on his tattered hoodie and is shouting to the sky. “Here they come! Oh yes. They’re coming!”

The Doctor learns seconds later that he’s not talking about the drums. Or about the two of them coming together in a brutal tryst in the dirt. Lights pierce the darkness and some Other is breaking into their dance, stealing away the Master.

The Doctor hasn’t even finished his pitch.

“I love you and I can save you,” the Doctor says, to no one who can hear, not for the first time. The Master never listens, but the Doctor still believes he has a chance to save him, to love him, because he’ll always believe.

Even when it’s too late, the Doctor still believes.

  
.


End file.
